Smoke again.
Gren set the small plastic bag down on his bedside table and was suddenly gripped by an intense bout of déjà vu. He had done this many times before. He had trudged home in cold so thick it was almost asphyxiating and hoped that his vodka wasn't frigid by the time he made it in. That wouldn't be a problem in Margate now, or probably ever, but looking at the shocking, unnatural white of the plastic against the dark brown of the table made him feel lost. And so did the vodka, which he hadn't needed to keep warm, but had purchased out of habit.

He pulled one of the cigarettes from his new pack and opened the window. The salt air filled his nose and made his head swim, but once he got the cigarette lit and the air had to contend with the smell of a new kind of smoke his head evened out. He'd get used to it eventually, adapt was what he did. He took a long drag and let the smoke fill his lungs. These were smoother than the cigarettes he used to buy on Callisto, and he'd have to remember thank Sanzo for letting him tag along.

Leaning against the window sill with the elbow of his right arm, he held the cigarette out so the ash dropped on the ground below and used his free hand to undo the braid by working his fingers through it. “Shit.” His finger caught on a knot and played with it until it smoothed out. Maybe he'd get a hair cut, start over. He took another drag and watched the waves roll in to shore. It was beautiful. Gren had never seen the ocean, but there had been dunes on Titan which had formed the same sort of wave like shapes. And when the sand storms blew in and the soldiers hunkered down in their tents to wait it out, the wind had blown gusts over the top of the dunes that made them look like they were frothing and rolling.

He stubbed the cigarette out on the window sill and left the butt there to come back to. Then he pulled the curtains but left the window panes open to let in the fresh air. It had been years since he'd lived in a place where you could leave a window open, and he decided that he might not ever close it again. With the curtains closed the room was slightly darker, more like his rooms on Callisto, only lacking in the faded and bent pictures which lined his walls. There was no cocoon of memories to wrap himself in here. He had to be him on his own. He laughed. What a terrifying thought.

Gren untucked and unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled it off and laid it across the foot of the bed. He'd have to find new clothing, but he'd been wary of shopping for clothing since he escaped from the prison. He stood in front of the mirror and and tried to reconcile himself with his new surroundings. His hair fell around his shoulders, the tips brushing the bandages he wrapped around his chest to play down his feminine figure. “You told me that as a man you could use me,” he said to his reflection, “but that as a woman you might love me. You sent me to the place where they did this to me, and then when you met the woman, you tried to kill her. Even before you knew it was me.” And then, even though he knew no one would answer he said “why?” The sounds of the waves crashing into shore and the gulls searching for food were the only answer.

Then it occurred to him that the words in his memories might be bogging him down. If he boiled them down to their essence and could see them for what they truly were, he might be able to create a new life here. He walked around the bed and rummaged through the bag until he found the pad of paper and pens. Perched on the edge of the bed he pulled one of the pen caps off with his teeth and scribbled it quickly.

There's no reason to
believe in anything, you
try, but I survive.

Perhaps he'd show it to Anotsu and ask for some pointers. What he really needed, he felt, was a new sax.